


Every Moment Looking at Her

by oof654321



Category: Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, angsty, wlw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:20:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23684533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oof654321/pseuds/oof654321
Summary: Marianne didn't let Héloïse leave the orchestra without speaking to her.
Relationships: Héloïse & Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire), Héloïse/Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 96





	1. I Fell In Love

I ran to her.  
When the music finished, when the doors opened, I ran to her. I pushed through everyone in the crowds and I ran, I ran until the commotion caused her to turn her head and look at me, wide eyed, and I ran until my body collided against hers and my arms wrapped around her and I once again felt her hot breath on my skin and her chest on my chest and my face on her neck, breathing her in.  
To feel her against me, after all those years.  
Breathing in, breathing out.  
Her hair, her blouse.  
And she stood there. Shocked. She lifted her arms and held my face in her hands and looked into my eyes. Our eyes, locked. It was just us, then, alone in a room full of people. I whispered, “It’s me, Héloïse.”  
“Marianne?” Her lips quivered.  
“It’s me.”  
“It’s you. I… it’s really you.”  
Her trembling fingers pushed my hair behind my ear. It was her. It was me. Her and me, touching and breathing and holding each other again. I had turned back but I didn’t lose her.  
She grabbed my arm and led me out of the concert hall, into the cold night air where we sat on an old wooden bench off the side of the cobblestone street and whispered under the moonlight.  
“I can’t believe it’s you,” she said, gently running the back of her finger down my cheek.  
“I’m so glad I caught you.”  
I put a hand on her thigh.  
“I’m glad, too,” she smiled, a soft, somber smile.  
“I saw your painting, Héloïse. I saw the book.”  
“I never forgot you. I never forgot us.”  
“I still love you.”  
She looked up to the sky then, at the shining stars. Tears fell silently down her cheeks. Outside the concert hall, some people had gathered, waiting for the orchestra to come out, chatting about the music. Héloïse turned back to face me, bit her lip. Suddenly she put her hands on my cheeks and pulled me in, kissed me in the blue darkness, hard, rubbing her thumbs against the bags under my eyes as her warm lips collided with mine, her fingers on the back of my neck, unconsciously playing with my hair.  
I lost myself on that bench, I fell back into her. If she had let go of my face, I may have fallen apart, out onto the shining street. When she kissed me, I felt music in her mouth, Vivaldi vibratos, and my heart beat in my throat, in my fingertips, in my eyelids. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized that I lived each day only to feel her touch once more.  
When we pulled back, I looked around. No one had noticed.  
“I have to get back,” Héloïse frowned, “my husband will worry if I’m not back soon. But, please, please meet me at the coffeehouse, in Havelska. Tomorrow, noon. I want to talk with you. I need to talk with you.”  
“Okay.”  
She stood and turned. But she stopped, looked back at me.  
“I love you, too, Marianne,” she said. “I never could stop loving you.”  
With that, she walked off. She did look back one last time, to my joy, and we smiled at each other. Hastily, I wiped the tears off my cheeks. Gave an awkward little wave.  
And she was gone.  
I sat on that bench for a while, watching the crowd. Laughing men and women, high society in suits and blazers and tailcoats and gowns. I could smell happiness in the air, like honeysuckle. I didn’t want to go back to my small apartment, back to my cluttered room, back to my loneliness. Back to her ghost.  
But, we were meeting. Tomorrow, noon. The meeting made me stand, made me leave that bench, that bench which I will always remember, and walk back to my apartment. It made me sit in the bath and imagine the warm water was her skin on mine, made me lay in my bed and hold my pillow tight against me, made me dream in oil paintings under the quivering glow of flames.  
\------  
“You’re happy today, Marianne,” Adrienne whispered while watching me. She let out a little giggle. “I’m painting a smile.”  
“It’s a beautiful day,” I said, remaining still.  
“It is.”  
Sunlight shone through the two long windows on the far wall, lighting the wooden floor, and Adrienne’s canvas, with dazzling natural light. The gray walls of the studio came alive with a comforting glow, like a Vermeer painting. Dust in the light, floating aimlessly in the air. I watched it with the amazement of a child.  
Héloïse made me remember how beautiful our Earth was.  
After the session, I looked at the still life. My skin glowed. A slight smile, nothing too intense. “It’s lovely,” I said. “The folds on the dress need some work, and perhaps your shadows could be a bit darker, but I think you’re making wonderful progress.”  
“Thank you, madame.”  
“See you Thursday.”  
“See you.”  
\------  
I walked to the coffeehouse, occupying myself with a silent admiration of the trees and the sky and the grass, the natural world that I encountered on my journey. She waited outside, at a small wooden table. She stood when she saw me.  
I still wasn’t used to it, seeing her face. Her perfect skin, her perfect eyes and nose and mouth. I wanted to touch her again. To assure myself that she was real; she wasn’t the ghost that stood behind me in my dreams. Always there, always out of sight. No, Héloïse was real. And when I sat down, I touched her wrist.  
“Hi,” she smiled.  
“Hi,” I laughed.  
For a moment we remained silent, watching each other, a giddiness bouncing between the two of us. Birds chirped from the crevices of the brick buildings that lined the street. Héloïse broke the silence, “I thought I’d never see you again,” she said, her smile slowly fading.  
“I watched you, at the orchestra. You were crying,” I whispered.  
“I was remembering.”  
“I never stopped thinking of you. Every day I hoped I’d run into you on the street. Every market, every orchestra, every gallery, I looked for you. I moved here for you, I moved here because I thought maybe I’d get to finally see you again.”  
I never thought I’d say it all out loud.  
She began to cry, a quiet sadness.  
“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her face.  
“No, no, it’s okay. It’s okay. It’s just, I just, I never, ever stopped. I could never forgive myself for leaving-”  
“You had to leave, though. There’s no reason to feel sorry for it.”  
“No, Héloïse, I didn’t. I could have stayed, I could have forced you back on the boat with me and brought you home and… and been with you. And not let you go.”  
“You would have been killed, Marianne. This marriage, it’s what I was meant to do, ever since my mother realized she’d had a girl. It was always what I had to do.”  
“I can’t stand you being with him. I’m sorry, I can’t.”  
“I know. I don’t want to be with him. But, we have a daughter now.”  
“I…”  
“This is… a lot. But, I can’t leave them, Marianne, you know that? I can’t leave them.”  
“What do you mean?”  
I realized then what I had really hoped for. I had hoped she’d be mine again. I’d be hers again. I had hoped we could leave for somewhere new and love each other freely.  
It was silly to think I could ever fulfill these hopes.  
“I have a daughter. I’m a different person, now-”  
“But you said you still loved me?”  
She held my hands in hers, squeezed my fingers. “I do,” she said, “I really, really do. I love you so much it hurts. I cried for hours after I left last night, I told my husband the music had changed me but it was you, it was you. I love you, but I can’t have you. I still can’t have you.”  
She choked out a sob.  
“I don’t think I can ever have you,” she whispered, “I tried for so long to move on because it was all I could do to stop hurting, but you were always there. Like you said, you were in everything I did. Everywhere I went. Even if I didn’t want you to, even if I wanted so badly to enjoy my new life. You were still there.”  
“Leave with me. We can go to an island, we can buy a small house. I have money saved from my painting classes. We could leave.”  
“What about my daughter, Marianne? My mother? I still love them.”  
“We can bring them.”  
“They won’t come. Marianne won’t leave her father and my mother won’t approve of us leaving.”  
My breath caught. I removed my hand from hers and covered my mouth with trembling fingers. “You named her Marianne?” I whispered.  
She nodded solemnly.  
“I wanted her to be the reminder,” she said, fresh tears running their course. “She was the proof that a man had used my body, but, deep down, I wanted her to be the reminder of who I truly loved. I begged him to let me name her Marianne, and when he caved I cried because I thought that having her meant I’d never be with you again.”  
I lowered my head and looked at my shoes.  
“I’m so sorry,” Héloïse said. “I do want to leave. To be with you.”  
“Let me paint you,” I whipped my head up. “Please, let me paint you again. I’m sure he would approve, I did your wedding portrait after all.”  
“I don’t know…”  
“Please, Héloïse. I want to meet Marianne. I want to meet your husband. Let me paint you again. You’ve changed a little bit, I want you to be on my canvas. Please.”  
“I’ll have to talk to Adam about it.”  
“That’s okay. Just, send me a letter. Let me know if I can or can’t.”  
“Alright, Marianne. I’ll let you know.”  
“Thank you.”  
“Please, tell me about yourself. About your painting class.”  
I smiled. A new hope formed.  
But I still wanted to touch her. This chat at the coffeehouse, it wasn’t enough. I wanted her in my arms. I wanted her breath in my breath. I’d spent so many years without her, and there she was, so close yet still unattainable. Like a jewel locked behind a glass case. And I was the thief who so strongly desired to shatter her cage.  
I told her about my life but not about my loneliness. My solitude. These were things I couldn’t tell anyone.  
Every time I looked into her eyes, I remembered. How could I focus enough to paint her?  
It bought me time, though. To hope even more.  
So I watched her lips move,  
Her eyes shine with sunlight,  
Her fingers drum on my palm,  
Her nostrils flair,  
Her hair waver,  
Her chest rise.

I fell in love.


	2. She Still Loves You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marianne arrives at Héloïse's new home.

I received the letter on a foggy morning three weeks after Héloïse and I met at the coffeehouse.  
I learned their new address.  
I learned that he wrote for her.  
I learned that he couldn’t spell Héloïse correctly.  
And I learned that he was delighted with my wedding portrait.  
Should I enlighten him with the circumstances that surrounded its creation?  
After I finished reading, I looked out my small window, at the gray streets. Outside, men and women walked with elbows linked. Were they in love? I wondered if it was possible for others to love as strongly as I. Did he ache for her when he was away? Did she imagine him laying next to her, holding her, touching her, soothing her, whenever he went out for business?  
I wondered what Héloïse’s new life looked like. Maids, butlers, extravagance? A living Rococo painting? That wasn’t her, that wasn’t what she wanted.  
But then again, Héloïse had no control.  
This angered me the most, because I knew Héloïse, I knew what she wanted and what she needed and what made her tick and made her smile and made her cry. Adam could never reach the closeness that had already been established between the two of us.  
\------  
I reached the estate on the twenty-fourth. It was a large, sand-colored building, sitting atop a vast field of cobblestone. No grass, no trees, no beaches. Only stone, gray, brown. A metal fence surrounded the palace, with beautiful bronze statues, which sat atop cubic, brick platforms, breaking the fence every four feet or so. A swirly, gold archway over the entrance, twinkling against the ash clouds that blanketed the sky. Yet the air did not smell like rain.  
Many windows plastered the facade of the building, iron bars over the glass. I looked into each of them, darkness staring back at me. The red-tiled roof looked slick and I could see, above one middle window, another bronze statue: Artemis, arrow drawn. Outside, a maid waited for me. “You must be Marianne,” she smiled at me. “Follow me.”  
I thanked the driver of the carriage and stepped out, my canvas bag straining my shoulders, and nodded to the maid. The foyer was sparkling crystal and clean white, marble floors and bright portraits. I could smell soup wafting from the kitchen to my right.  
“She’s in here,” the maid said.  
And there was Héloïse, sprawled on the couch, book in one hand and wine glass in the other, a small, white dog curled at her feet. As I got closer I realized the dog had brown spots on its body and ears, and I smiled at its beauty, at her beauty, at the beauty of the house and its interior and that tilt of the head when she saw me.  
“Welcome,” Héloïse said, closing her book. The maid turned to me, curtseyed, and left. Héloïse set her wine glass down and stood, the dog whimpering at her absence. I smiled at it, empathetically, and hugged Héloïse when she reached me. Her smell, her hair. Her clothes. “Hi,” I whispered into her neck.  
I remembered the first time I saw her. Her back turned. I felt her, then, a presence without a face. Not dissimilar to the dreams I’d been having. And back then, she’d ran to the cliffs, wildly looked over the edge to the jagged rocks. Her hood down, her pale blonde hair shining even under a sunless sky. Her eyes, luminous and blue and green.  
She drew back and looked behind me. I turned.  
“So, you’re Marianne,” he said.  
“And you’re Adam?”  
“Indeed.”  
“Pleasure to meet you.”  
“It usually is.”  
I let out a dry laugh. He responded with a strained smile. He had curly black hair and small brown freckles on his cheeks. His face lacked any scars or wrinkles, leaving him lifeless and cold. Piercing brown eyes studied me as I studied him. Tired eyes. Slowly I walked forward, noticing our height difference (I had a few inches on him) and reached my hand out. He shook it and nodded. Swift, stern.  
“Marianne’s in a lesson,” Héloïse spoke up.  
I turned and smiled, “I can’t wait to meet her,” I said.  
“She’s excited to meet you, too. I’ve told her about you. She wants to be a painter, actually. Just like her namesake.”  
I turned. Adam was gone.  
“Who is this?” I giggled, walking over to the dog.  
“Her name is Venus.”  
“She’s gorgeous.”  
“She keeps me company.”  
Héloïse sat quietly next to me as I pet Venus, stroking her calm, soft ears. I turned to Héloïse. She watched the floor, distant. I put a hand on her thigh. She snapped her head to me and smiled, still not entirely there. I leaned in close, my face up to hers, but she put a hand on my chest and pushed me back.  
“We can’t,” she whispered.  
“Why not?”  
“Just, not here. I’m sorry.”  
“Okay.”  
But I looked down, my face hot. I closed my eyes and gulped, calmed myself. She still loves you, she still loves you, she still loves you.  
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “Soon.”  
I nodded, forced a smile. The dog closed its eyes and rested its head on the couch cushion.  
\------  
That night, we ate fish soup in the dining room. I met Marianne for the first time.  
Striking blonde hair, just like her mother. Green-blue eyes, too. She was quiet at first, reserved. A white dress fell down to her ankles. She must have been eleven, then. Every time I looked up at her, she glanced away.  
“Marianne,” I said, “I heard you wanted to be a painter?”  
She nodded, watching her soup.  
“I could teach you,” I said, “I teach a lot of classes right now. I could help you get started.”  
She looked up. “Really?” she whispered.  
“Of course,” I smiled. “I’d love to.”  
“That’s not necessary,” Adam said. His lips were a thin line, his cheeks slightly sucked in. Candlelight painted his face yellow, the shadows dancing as he spoke.  
“What do you mean?” I turned to him.  
“Well,” he sighed, “painting just doesn’t seem like the right path for her. Woman painters aren’t as successful as men, I don’t see the point in her trying it. It may just crush her.”  
Marianne looked down. I narrowed my eyes. “Just because the world hasn’t accepted our work doesn’t mean it won’t in the future. Have you no faith?”  
“Well, I understand why it isn’t accepted,” he said. He looked me in the eyes. “Women just aren’t as good as men, at painting at least. I’ve seen it myself.”  
“Excuse me?”  
“Adam,” Héloïse whispered angrily.  
“It’s just,” he said, “you’re different, of course. But, you’re an anomaly.”  
“You’re mistaken.”  
“Oh?”  
“I’ve met many talented women painters. You must not have looked hard enough.”  
He looked down, but kept confident.  
“I see,” he said. He didn’t want to argue any longer.  
I turned to Marianne. “If you really want to paint,” I said, “then paint. My father was a painter and he thought it was a rotten profession, but I’m perfectly happy doing it.”  
She smiled.  
“And thank you,” I continued, looking then to Adam, “for letting me paint you all.”  
“Of course,” he said.  
And we ate our dinners in silence.  
\------  
As I laid in the guest bed staring at the cream ceiling, hot under the heavy blanket, I heard a small rustling in the room adjacent. I turned to watch out the window, to the dark blue sky, the small white stars. My heart beat fast but I didn’t know why. I crept outside, clad only in a nightgown, my bare feet slapping softly against the hard floor, and carefully pushed Héloïse’s door ajar. Adam kissing her neck, Héloïse giggling.  
I crept back into my room. Removed my gown and slipped into the bed.  
Adam, touching her.  
Héloïse, being touched.  
Short, rectangular fingers with small sprouts of hair on the knuckles.  
Touching her.  
Thin, chapped lips.  
Kissing her.  
Sour breath in her ear.  
Héloïse, giggling?  
I gulped and laid my arm over my eyes. Immediately I regretted suggesting a new painting. I could have just left it all be, I could have let her go.  
But she was right there, she was right in front of me.  
She kissed me, that night. Under the stars, on the bench. I still felt the kiss, still felt her wet lips and soft tongue and trembling fingers. I still felt her on me. I could picture her body every time I closed my eyes. Slowly, I reached my hand under the covers.  
That night, in my dreams, I felt her watching my back as I ran to my childhood home. Rain fell softly. I threw the door open but the home was empty, save a black snake coiled up on the worn wooden floor. It crept forward, towards me, and I backed up. Reluctantly I turned, expecting to see Héloïse, but there was nothing. Still, she was watching me. I ran.  
\------  
Morning light shone through the large window on the far side of the room, reaching the royal blue bed as the sun rose. I looked out, over the courtyard. More citizens walking, elbows linked, umbrellas unfurled to shield them from the morning blaze. I didn’t wonder about love, then. I simply watched them walk by.  
I walked into the kitchen, still in my gown. The maid was making eggs on the stove. “Morning, madame,” she said.  
“What’s your name?”  
“Pardon?”  
“Your name?”  
“Oh, it’s Florence.”  
“Where are you from, Florence?”  
“Spain.”  
“Which part? I’ve been a few times.”  
“Girona.”  
“Oh, lovely city.”  
She smiled, a real, wide smile. “I miss it every day,” she whispered.  
I walked to the couch. Venus laid in Héloïse’s spot, sleeping soundly. I pet her ears again, watched her nose twitch. I looked up. Héloïse was watching us with a soft, unconscious smile.  
“Good morning,” I said.  
“How’d you sleep?”  
“Just fine, the bed is very soft.”  
“Yes, we used it until Adam insisted we get a stiffer one. I still miss it,” she laughed.  
I nodded, smiled.  
I noticed, then, through a wide, north-facing window, how the palace had a backyard with a large fountain and patches of green garden space. I had been wrong, the home had an outlet to nature.  
“Your backyard is nice,” I said.  
“Yes, I love to take walks and admire the statues. We could go out later?”  
“Sounds lovely.”  
And she walked off.  
\------

We began the painting process at noon. Héloïse sat in a chair with a red satin cover, Marianne in her lap, and Adam stood behind them, his hand on Héloïse’s shoulder. Héloïse had a hand on Marianne’s head, her other resting in her lap, and Marianne sat with her hands clasped. I sketched Marianne first, as the young ones often moved the most, and then Héloïse and Adam, large, light figures, empty ghosts without faces. My charcoal dragged across the paper with a sharp scratch. Portrait of a happy family. Héloïse smiling, Adam smiling, Marianne smiling.  
I wondered if it was real, their smiles.  
If Héloïse’s laughter was real, last night.  
If she loved Adam, if she loved me.  
Her green-blue eyes watched me as I sketched her.  
Perhaps she was remembering.  
But all I could think, even with my subjects in front of me, was of her giggling, her teeth flashing in the yellow candlelight. Adam’s curled hair, Adam’s face in her neck, Adam’s arms around her waist, his breath and her breath, his skin and her skin, together, touching, laughing, sweating, moaning,  
My charcoal piece snapped in my fingers.  
“Sorry,” I mustered, smiling awkwardly.  
I took a new piece out of my bag and began again.


	3. Bad Things Could Happen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions rise between Héloïse, Marianne, and Adam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Animal violence :(

On Sunday, we walked. A stone pathway cut through the garden, a flat, green space in which grew flowers and fruits, and led in a circle around the grounds. The sky was a quiet blue, a morning blue, hazy and light. We admired the marble statues, which lined the pathway: different variations of Aphrodite, Artemis, and Apollo. I stopped and studied one of Aphrodite. She stood in contrapposto, staring off, past us and to the bricks and cobblestone of the city, her body nude, her hand resting above her pubic region. I looked into her eyes, cold and empty. Her wavy hair, tied in a bun. Frigid hands and legs, breasts and arms. I touched her. The marble was speckled with brown but still felt clean under my fingers.  
“She’s lovely,” I whispered.  
“She’s my favorite,” Héloïse smiled.   
I turned and stared at her.  
Stray strands of blond hair danced in the air. Her skin, porcelain and soft. I reached out and grazed the back of my finger down her cheek. She tilted her head away. I looked down and sighed, “I should probably set up the easel,” I whispered.  
I turned but she took my hand. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “Listen, it’s just, if Adam saw us… bad things could happen, you know?”  
“Don’t be afraid of Adam.”  
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
“He’s just got an inflated ego.”  
“He thrives off your underestimation, okay? He likes to seem small. I’ve seen him do things I can’t forget, Marianne. Please understand. We have to keep safe.”  
“I’m going to go set up the easel.”   
I walked back to the house.  
\------  
“I think I need a break,” Adam spoke up. He stepped away from the chair and stretched. Héloïse rubbed Marianne’s arms and walked into the kitchen. Adam continued, “I’m going to grab a bottle of wine.”  
“Do we want to be done for today, then?” I asked.  
“Yes.”  
I set my brush down and looked over the painting. Still ghostly tones, the family was lifeless, colorless. Undertones. I looked up and Marianne was still sitting on her chair.   
“Do you want to see it?” I asked.  
“Yes, please.”  
“Of course.”  
She stood and walked over to the piece, studied it. “Why is it so gray?” she asked.  
“Well, I’m just laying down the undertones. In the end, this will give your faces more depth and realism.”  
“Oh.”  
“Do you have any artwork I could see?”  
“Yes, I’ll go get them.”  
She ran up the stairs and came back, a strung-together sketchbook in her hand. “I don’t let dad see this,” she whispered to me. She opened the book to reveal drawings of Venus, of fruit, of flowers in the garden. “I do them when he’s away.”  
“They’re wonderful.”  
“Thank you,” she smiled.  
“Do you want to try painting?”  
“I would love to.”  
“Here,” I gave her my pallette, “You can use these, I don’t mind. I can refill it tomorrow.”  
“Thank you so much, madame,” she looked at me with wide, excited eyes.  
“Of course,” I smiled.  
She ran back up the stairs, the palette and sketchbook tucked under her arm. Héloïse stood in the doorway, watching. “Hi,” I said.  
“She’ll have fun with those,” she laughed.  
“Yeah.”  
She walked over, stood behind me and looked at the painting. “I remember when I saw your first painting of me,” she said. “When you started over.”  
I nodded.  
She draped her arms around me and leaned forward, her chest against my shoulder. I could feel her heartbeat on my back, feel her chest swell with every breath. She whispered: “I want to kiss you again.”  
We turned to each other, our faces just inches apart. She was a painting, then, she was oil, she was artwork, she was perfection. Her eyes, her lashes. It took everything in me to restrain myself from holding her head and kissing her with the strength of a woman hopelessly, desperately, impossibly in love.   
And there was sadness in her eyes, I noticed that then. I wanted to hold her against me, to lie with her in bed and sing to her and paint her nude body and take everything undesirable from her mind. I wanted us to be okay, I wanted us to be at peace together.   
I stood, “I don’t know if I can keep doing this,” I whispered, suddenly angry.  
Héloïse looked down.   
Venus trotted into the room, tilted her head up to us. She whimpered. I walked over and picked her up, petted her ears and sighed. A small, black beetle crawled on her fur, up to her neck. I watched it for a moment. A spot of darkness against clean white fur. I flicked it off.  
\------  
We ate dinner in silence, that night. Florence cleared the table and left for her quarters. The family went to sleep shortly after, having nothing to do, but I laid on the couch, reading after dark, under flickering candlelight. Outside, I heard a rustling. I brought the candle to the window. Two green eyes stared at me. The creature moved to the side and I could tell, it was a hare, black as night. It hopped along.  
Late in the night, when the words on the page blurred and my eyes fell heavier with every passing minute, I trudged up the stairs, into the hallway of our rooms. Candlelight danced on the walls and floorboards creaked under my walk. I heard a door squeak open and I whipped my head around. It was Héloïse. She stood in the yellow light, watching me.  
“Hél-”  
She rushed forward and pushed me up against the wall, grabbed my face and kissed me.   
“Wait,” I mustered out, “wait.”  
She pulled back.   
“What?” she whispered.  
I squatted and carefully placed the candle on the floor. “Okay,” I smiled.  
I grabbed her and we kissed, in that dark hallway, kissed each other and reached up our nightgowns and let our cold hands startle our raw skin. We kissed because in the hallway it was only us, two flames in the darkness, grasping at each other, music in our tongues, humming in our chests, moaning and gasping and breathing as one. We kissed because to feel our skin against skin and our lips against lips was to breathe a new air and dawn a new day, an experience almost life changing, every single kiss, an experience that left us teeming with hopefulness and romance and warmth. We kissed and I saw Aphrodite, I saw Apollo, I saw dead eyes and clean dirtiness, marble skin and cold limbs, I saw love and peace and art and beauty.   
And I opened my eyes, and I saw Héloïse.  
\------  
In the morning, I woke up alone. I looked outside, gray streets and brown buildings. Heavy clouds hung in the sky above the palace. I stretched and scratched my neck. I remembered the night before. I still felt warmth on my skin. I laid down and pushed myself against my blanket, stretched my body again and felt the comfort of the bed; of Adam and Héloïse’s old mattress.   
For breakfast, I ate blueberry pie.   
Adam decided we’d start painting at one. Marianne gave me my pallette back, “Did you paint?” I asked her.  
“Yes,” she whispered, “I made many pieces.”  
“Could you show them to me soon?”  
“Yes, madame.”  
“I can’t wait.”  
We stopped at six, in time for Adam to go out with a few friends.  
In his absence, Héloïse and I took to my room. Florence told us dinner would be ready at seven.  
We spent the hour wisely.  
During dinner, Héloïse fed Venus small pieces of meat and cheese under the table. Adam watched, his eyes narrowed, his lips slightly upturned. He turned to me and said, “Thanks again for doing this painting.”  
“Of course.”  
“You’re very talented.”  
A twinkle in his eye.  
“Thank you,” I mustered.  
“Are you married, Marianne?”  
“No, sir.”  
“That’s a shame.”  
He took a swig of wine.  
“I suppose.”  
I glanced at Héloïse. She was staring into her wine glass, her eyes distant.  
“Have you ever been in love?” he asked.  
I looked down, at my almost-clean plate. Yellow light flickered on his face, shadows jittered behind him.   
“Yes,” I gulped. “I have.”  
“Oh?” he smiled.   
“It was a long time ago.”  
“What happened to her?”  
“Her?”  
“Well was it a man?”  
My face grew hot. Marianne watched with fascination.  
“I-”  
“I don’t know if this is appropriate,” Héloïse spoke up, suddenly turning to Adam. “Marianne might not want to bring up the past.”  
“My apologies,” Adam smirked, “I won’t ask again.”  
“Excuse me,” I stood and pushed my chair in. “I have to go use the restroom.”   
I left the table and sat on the closed toilet, my head in my hands, my breath heavy and labored. I put a hand over my heart and closed my eyes, slowed my breathing. You’re okay. It’s okay. You’re okay.  
\------  
I crept out of my room that night. I couldn’t sleep and I’d left my book downstairs, where I’d been reading it that morning. Candle in hand, I crept down the steps, admiring the house, still beautiful even in darkness. The portraits on the walls, all with their own unique qualities, miniscule artist’s signatures. A family viewed from different eyes. I wondered where my portrait would go.   
I walked into the living room. Adam was sitting in the chair, drinking whiskey. Venus sat in his lap. He was petting her ears. As I walked forward, the candlelight revealing more with each step, I gasped and startled back. Venus’ eyes were open and pale, her white fur stained red, her body limp and lifeless.   
“What did you do?” I hissed.  
Adam looked up, his eyes vacant but growing aware.  
“Oh,” he said, “Hello, Marianne. What are you doing up at this hour?”  
“What did you do to her?”  
“Nothing,” he looked down, “nothing.” his voice trailed off. He looked back to me, “She really loved this dog,” he said.  
“Héloïse?”  
“Yes, she did love her. Very much so. It’s a shame.”  
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”  
Adam tilted his head, watched me. In the yellow light, his eyes looked black. I shuddered.  
“Do you think I’m stupid, Marianne?” he asked, curling his lips in a slight smile.  
I placed the candle on the glass table. “I’m sorry?” I said.  
“I saw you, last night. With my wife. The walls are quite thin here, and quite loud when people bump against them.”  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
“I think, maybe, she wanted me to see you? Or perhaps she just couldn’t hold back, she couldn’t bear not to kiss her sweet Marianne. I knew right when she told me your name, when her skin glowed and her eyes sparkled just talking about you. I knew because, when she was with me, there was always something sad and lonely, deep down inside of her. And I was like, how could you be sad? You’re with me, after all!” he let out a dry, drunken laugh.  
“You’re pathetic, you know that? You fucking disgust me.”  
He chuckled again, took a swig of his whiskey. He looked to me with a sudden sadness in his eyes.   
“I just want her to love me,” he said. “Father didn’t love me, Mother didn’t love me. Héloïse, she doesn’t love me. I don’t know about Marianne, either. Perhaps she’s the only one who doesn’t hate me.”  
He stood, dropped the limp dog on the chair. “I’ll have the maid clean that up before Héloïse sees it,” he muttered. He looked up at me with fascination, as if he’d forgotten I was still there. “You know,” he said, walking forward, “You’re not going to tell her about this, right?”  
“Like hell I won-”  
He rushed forward, shot his arm up and gripped my neck, choked me, both of us standing in the middle of the room. I grabbed at his arm, scratching and hitting, but his grip did not loosen. I kicked at him, floundering, my feet scraping the floorboards, shaking and grunting. He never let go. The space filled with angry, arduous breaths. I began to gag, desperate for air. He threw the glass of whiskey against the wall behind us and, with his free hand, produced an open knife from its sheath on his hip, pushing its tip against my stomach. Tears flowed silently down my cheeks and I tried not to look at the slain Venus.   
“Listen to me,” he muttered, his voice heavy and hateful, “If you tell Héloïse about this little conversation we had, about how Venus didn’t actually run away, I’ll fucking cut you. Understand?” He pulled me in close.  
I nodded, my eyes squeezed shut and my mouth scrunched into a broken line, “yes,” I choked out, “yes, yes,” desperate nods, desperate whispers. His face up close to mine, I could smell his whiskey, feel his rage, his frustration, his desperation. He let me go and I crumpled to the floor, gasping for air, rubbing my neck, sobbing.   
“Good,” he said. “Off to bed, then.”  
And he left.  
I laid on the wooden floorboards, crying silently, my body shaking. I pulled my knees to my chest and closed my eyes, hugged myself. Behind me, the candle burned quietly. I felt humiliated, indignant.  
When, finally, I stood, I did not look at Venus, instead I crept to my room, silent, ashamed. Héloïse did not meet me in the hallway.   
I sniffled as I opened my door.  
And I laid in my bed, my body heavy and my neck throbbing, my heart pounding and my eyes watering. I hated myself for letting him overpower me.   
Under the blue moonlight, with the smoke of the put out candle floating in the air above me, I wept.


	4. You'll Be Okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marianne finishes her painting.

When I woke, I stared at the ceiling, my skin raw, my lips pursed. I didn’t want to leave the bed. Eventually I shifted my body, watched out the window, at the gray sky. I felt heavy, that morning, swollen and aching. I wondered about Héloïse. Was she looking for Venus? Did she hear me last night? I hoped she hadn’t heard; I hoped she wasn’t looking. I just wanted her to be okay, I wanted everything to be normal.  
How could I continue my painting?  
Finally I left the bed, stretched my legs, rubbed my neck. I dreaded the scene downstairs: Héloïse desperate, Adam resigned, detached.  
I lingered, standing perfectly still, my feet bare, my eyes groggy. My hand held onto the cold doorknob. I sighed and turned it, only to be met by Adam, who was standing outside, his hands in his pockets, studying a framed painting. He looked over to me and my body tensed.  
“Good m-”  
“What do you want?”  
I felt afraid, I felt angry.  
“Well,” he said, “I wanted to apologize for last night.”  
“Just…”  
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hurt you. That was maybe too much.”  
“Okay.”  
He looked down, and when he looked back up his eyes were no longer remorseful. “But,” he muttered, “I also wanted you to know. If you touch her again, I will make you disappear, just like that fucking dog. Okay?”  
I gulped, nodded.  
“Great,” he smiled. “See you at breakfast.”  
\------  
She was looking for her. Calling her name in the garden. And I watched, a hollow pain in my chest. I couldn’t look Adam in the eye. Every glimpse of him I remembered: choking, gagging, darkness, death. The knife against my stomach. His hot breath on my face. I went out and helped Héloïse, called her name and searched the bushes. It was all I felt I could do.  
We walked back to the house, our hair in the wind, our eyes squinting. I reached out and held her hand. I didn’t care if Adam saw. I just wanted to comfort her. Suddenly she turned to me, looked at my neck. It was the first time she’d truly seen me, that gray morning. She gasped, “What’s happened to you?” she asked.  
“It’s nothing.”  
“Marianne. Tell me.”  
“No, Héloïse. It’s fine.”  
She held her head up, continued walking. I loved seeing fire in her eyes. The flame was always put out quickly, here.  
She turned and looked at me once more. “Did Adam do something?” she whispered.  
I looked behind her, at the window. He was watching.  
I looked at her. I hoped she could tell, she could see it in my eyes: my screams, desperate screams, yes, yes, yes. He did something.  
And she could. She turned, but I knew she could. It was him, I’d wordlessly explained, it was him. And she understood. Watching her walk, ahead of me, I remembered. And I wanted her.  
We ate breakfast.  
We painted.  
We ate dinner.  
Marianne asked: “Where’s Venus? I haven’t seen her lately.”  
And I stared at my plate. I didn’t dare look at Adam. And I couldn’t force myself to look at Héloïse.  
I thought I was stronger. I thought, if a small man with a bad temper and a skewed moral compass were to someday put my loved ones, or I, in danger, I could push aside my anxieties and fight for myself, for them.  
But I couldn’t.  
I just couldn’t.  
Because, Héloïse was two feet in front of me. For years I wanted her back, I longed for her, I dreamt of her, I sang to her ghost and let her haunt me. I couldn’t risk losing her again, I had to play it safe. So I sat in silence and I listened as Héloïse said softly: “Venus has run away,” and I closed my eyes when Marianne started crying, and I went to my room after dinner because Héloïse was holding Marianne and telling her that it was alright, that they could get a new dog, that everything would be fine. Because Adam was watching, always watching, his eyes black, like a crow’s, his lips thin, his jaw clenched. I hated him.  
I laid in my bed, and I hated him.  
I hated him because after that night, after he left me broken on the floorboards, I felt a new part of me growing inside, an anger, red and black and bloody and bottomless.  
I hated him because he made me hate myself, too.  
So I laid in my bed. I didn’t read. I laid, and I imagined the last night differently. I imagined punching Adam, kicking him, hitting him with books and candleholders and screaming for Héloïse to come down the stairs and see him for the monster he is.  
And I wondered: Did she know? Did she even need the proof?  
\------  
We continued the painting. I moved on to real colors, pale peaches and grass greens, sky blue and blood red. This family, a collection of color. With my palette knife, I mixed paints, I soothed skins. I painted and I watched.  
And they watched me back.  
\------  
Héloïse avoided me and I hated the reason why. She wouldn’t come to my room, even when Adam had left, wouldn’t kiss me in the dark hallways. Soon, I wanted to risk it, I didn’t care if Adam knew, he could kill me, he could kill me because the painting was reaching its finish and I would have to leave Héloïse with him, leave Marianne and Florence with him.  
Florence, she wouldn’t look at me. Ignored me when I tried to whisper to her.  
I supposed he’d threatened her, too.  
So I painted. I read my book. I let the days pass and I closed my eyes at night. I told Marianne her artwork was beautiful. I let Florence go on with her cleaning.  
And in every dream, I always woke up choking. I always felt his hand on my neck, his impossible grip.  
\------  
One night, five days after Adam had ruined me, I dreamt of knocks on the wall, above my head. Three knocks. I opened my eyes and he was there, his knees on my chest, his hands on my throat.  
He choked me.  
Tears fell down, onto the sheets, careless, silent.  
I couldn’t move.  
I watched above me, watched his face. Felt his heavy body on mine, holding me down. I fell inside myself, I left my body because that was all I could do. I looked into the darkness within and I let it consume my mind, I let it take me away.  
And then I was alone, I was breathing, I was rolling off the bed and laying on the floor, gasping, coughing. I was okay, I was safe. I laid on the floor, I breathed. Deep breaths, in and out. You’ll be okay.  
I looked up at the wall.  
I remembered the knocks, hollow but heavy.  
You’ll be okay.  
\------  
As I laid in my bed, in the early hours of morning, restless and afraid, I remembered our last moment together, Héloïse and I.  
“Turn around,” she’d said.  
And I did.  
I didn’t want to, I wanted to leave and never return. I wanted to let her fall into the past, I wanted to forget. I didn’t want to say a final goodbye because maybe that meant it was over. Maybe that meant I’d never see her again.  
But I turned.  
And there she was, beautiful as ever. Standing on the steps.  
I watched her with tears in my eyes. Tears in hers, too.  
How far we’ve come.  
I walked forward, away from the open door, and slowly, I put my arms around her. She stood on the steps, and I leaned forward and laid my head on her stomach. She rested her arms over my shoulders. I felt her torso rise and fall with every breath. I closed my eyes, and we swayed ever so slightly in the cold, empty room. We stayed there for a while, holding each other, feeling each other. I whispered: “I think I love you.”  
“I think I love you, too.”  
And then I left.  
I hastily wiped my tears away as I walked forward. I didn’t turn back.  
\------  
I’d known I couldn’t let her leave, when I saw her at the orchestra. I’d known it was my only chance.  
So I sat up. I looked outside. Tiny white stars shined against the bottomless night. The moon, glowing in the shape of a crescent. I wondered if there was more, beyond the stars. I wondered if God was watching us.  
And I knew how ferocious my hatred was, then. I let myself imagine Adam dying, over and over. I imagined tying him to a chair and burning him and cutting him and castrating him and spitting on his dead body.  
In that moment, I didn’t hate him because of what he did to me. I hated him for what he did to her. To Héloïse. He didn’t love her. He wouldn’t frighten someone he loved. I remembered Héloïse’s distant eyes, I thought of how she hadn’t touched me for days. I hated him because he didn’t know love, he didn’t know the magic of stars and skin and song and Sappho. Of Aphrodite and Apollo and candlelight and lips. I could see it in his eyes: Adam knew only violence. Rejection. Deception.  
And what about Marianne? Growing up with a violent father. A father who didn’t support her, who discouraged her from following her passion. She could have a better life. Héloïse and I could give her a better life. I knew we could.  
\------  
Three days later, the painting was finished. It was one of my best works. The skin, the eyes, the clothes, the chair and the background. It was perfect. I looked at it as if I hadn’t done it, as if a different part of me had, a detached part, the part that cared only about painting and not about the monsters lurking behind its subjects. I hated it. I loved it. It was perfect. It was disgusting. It was the culmination.  
Adam was impressed. He gleamed when he saw it, “It’s wonderful,” he said. He put his heavy hand on my shoulder and I flinched at his touch. “You really outdid yourself with this one.”  
I nodded, looked down. “Thank you, sir,” I whispered.  
Marianne was ecstatic, “I can’t believe it!” she laughed, “It’s so realistic. It’s so perfect. You have to give me lessons, you have to!”  
Adam glared at her. “That’s not necessary, darling,” he whispered. “Marianne should get back to her classes.”  
“But I really want her to teach me.”  
“Marianne has her own life, though.”  
I turned. I felt the fury in my chest. “I could stay,” I said. “I would absolutely love to teach her. We could have sessions every day. In a month she’d be ten times better than she is today, I guarantee it.”  
When Adam looked at me, I stared back into his beady eyes with defiance. He wouldn’t hurt me, not here, not in front of them. He squinted his eyes. “No.” he said. “And that’s final. She doesn’t need to learn to paint. She’s not meant for painting.” he turned to Marianne. “Understand?”  
She looked down, nodded.  
He put a hand on her head and ruffled her hair. “I’m sorry, darling. It’s just not for you.”  
She trudged up the stairs.  
“Well,” he said. “I’ll go grab a bottle of wine to celebrate. We can drink it at dinner.” He walked off and opened the door to the basement, descended into the darkness.  
Héloïse was the only one left. She’d been silent, intently staring at the portrait.  
“I look different,” she whispered.  
“Just a little bit.”  
“My face, it looks older.”  
“You’re still beautiful.”  
She looked at me. I meant every word.  
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry, Marianne. For what he did to you. I can still see bruises.”  
“It’s nothing, Héloïse. Really.”  
There was an urgency in her eyes then, “I want to leave him,” she whispered. “I want to leave him. I just don’t know how.”  
I took her hand. “Come with me. We can go to an island somewhere, we can go to America, we can go anywhere.”  
“But what if he finds us? He has so much money. He could send investigators to every country on the planet with his inheritance. And I think he would do it.”  
“We can keep running. We can take Marianne.”  
“I’m afraid.”  
I squeezed her fingers. “I know,” I whispered. “You’ll be okay. We’ll figure this out. I need to pack up, though.”  
“I can’t believe you’re leaving again.”  
“We’ll see.”  
She looked down. “Can I stay here while you pack?” she asked.  
“Sure.”  
We stayed silent while I folded the easel and cleaned my brushes and rolled them into a cloth. We didn’t need words, we didn’t need to speak. We just needed each other. It was peaceful. Outside, we could hear birds chirp and pedestrians yell. We could hear the world. There was a world, out there. A world larger than we knew, a world where we could disappear and be free.  
We had a feast for dinner. At the table, we laughed, we sang, we ate. We made messes that we didn’t clean. We pretended we were okay, we pretended we were safe and calm. A happy family. This is what I saw. A laughing, happy family. But look a little closer. In the wife’s eyes, you can see it. The sadness. It’s larger than everything, even love. The wife, she’s trapped. She can’t live her life. She can’t be herself. She’s a prisoner but her lips are curled into a smile.  
Look at the painter. She’s smiling, too. But deep down she knows that it’s all about to end. She’s going to leave Héloïse, in this big house, with this happy family. She’s going to leave Héloïse to sleep next to a monster, to pretend she loves him because she fears what would happen if she didn’t. Héloïse, who used to be fire. Héloïse, who is now the ashes and not the flame. The painter hates to see Héloïse’s flame put out. The painter can’t admit that, maybe, the monster put her flame out, too.  
And look at the daughter. Right now she’s happy, but soon she’ll have to go back to her room and face her torn drawings, her ripped canvases, her destroyed history. Her passion, right in front of her yet still unattainable. Will she be okay? Will she?  
\------  
I stayed up downstairs, that night. Reading. I hoped that, once it hurt to keep my eyes open, when I’d creep up the stairs, Héloïse would be waiting for me. And, soon after midnight, it did hurt to keep my eyes open. And I did creep up the stairs. And, with my candle in hand, I looked down the empty hallway. The walk to my room was painfully slow. Wordlessly I begged her, please, open the door. And then I wondered: what if she’s waiting for me in my room? Lying on my bed? I picked up my pace, I smiled, I opened my bedroom door to see only my bag of supplies on my white comforter. My dark room.  
At least I had the night sky.  
I sat down, put the candle on the desk. I held my face in my hands and breathed. In and out. In and out. Silence. You’ll be okay.  
But then: yelling. Angry, hate-filled yelling. I stood, grabbed my candle. As I walked down the hallway, I noticed Marianne’s door slightly ajar. She was peering out, through the crack. I bent down, “Listen,” I whispered to her. I spoke the words but I didn’t know why. “No matter what you hear, don’t open your door. Okay?”  
She nodded.  
“It’ll be okay.”  
“Okay.”  
I walked onward, towards the screaming. I made out the words, “I don’t love you. I never loved you. I know you hurt Marianne and I know you hurt Venus.”  
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
“I could see her bruises, Adam. God, what is wrong with you?”  
“Nothing is wrong with me. I put that bitch in her place.”  
“Fuck you.”  
A slap. More yelling, grunting. “Fuck you,” she said, over and over, “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you,” and he just kept hitting her. I could hear her screams. But she continued, she wasn’t ashes, she was a match, “FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU,” between her shrieks, shrill and hateful, “FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU,” and suddenly I was running back to my room, and throwing my bag open, and picking out something cold and metallic, and dragging my desk chair to Marianne’s door and leaning it under the handle, securing it in its place, and then I was walking to the screaming, “FUCK YOU,” thwack, “FUCK YOU,” scream, scream, and then the creaking of the door opening.  
She saw me. Her face was bloody. She fell silent. But he didn’t stop. He hit her again, again, again. I rushed forward.  
I shoved the palette knife into the side of his neck.  
I backed up.  
He stumbled.  
And then he turned.  
And he raged. He yelled and screamed, “YOU FUCKING BITCH,” and he hobbled forward, weak but seething, and he grabbed at the palette knife, 3 inches deep in his flesh, and he ripped it out, screamed, deep and guttoral, screamed and screamed, and hobbled forward again, a few, drunken steps, and slowly, his screams quieted, and he just breathed, deep breaths, in and out, in and out, and I saw the blood, black in the candlelight, rushing from the hole in his neck and down his shoulder, down his arm, down his side, dripping off his body, off the knife, and I could smell it, thick and heavy in the air, and then he fell to his knees, the floor shaking with the weight of his body, and he looked up at me, finally silent, his mouth still open, and I could see it. I could see the sorrow in his eyes. I can still see the sorrow in his eyes. He watched me, for a few seconds, kneeling on the floor. And then he looked beyond, behind me and behind everything, into a different world. And he fell forward, dead. Blood soaked the wooden floors under him and I just stood there.  
I stood there, and I watched.


	5. Everything is Okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the final chapter of Every Moment Looking at Her, Marianne, Héloïse, and her daughter must embark on a journey.

Slowly, I put the candle on the desk. I breathed hard, long, heavy breaths. I couldn’t think. In and out. My hands were shaking. In and out. His blood reached for my toe and I stepped back. In and out. Héloïse looked at the body and then at me. The body and me, the body and me. She carefully stepped over him, walked to me. Put a hand on my cheek. And then brought me in, hugged me hard. We stayed there for a moment, holding each other. She whispered: “It’ll be okay. We’re okay. We’re safe now. You’re okay.”  
I sobbed into her shoulder.  
“You’re okay.”  
I wasn’t okay, though. It wouldn’t be okay.  
He was dead. His face against the wood. His blood on Héloïse’s feet. He was dead. And I had killed him.  
“You’re okay.”  
I let go of her and stepped back. Her face was painted with blood, her bed as well. Her lip split, her nose bent, possibly broken. Her right eye was squeezed shut, her cheek swollen and blue. So I hugged her again.  
“You’re okay.”  
\------  
“Where are we going?” Marianne asked. Héloïse carried her down the stairs and into the kitchen.  
“We’re going on an adventure, okay?”  
I was in the room with the dead man, the door closed behind me. I took my palette knife, wiped it off on the bed sheets, and placed it on the desk.  
“Where’s dad?” Marianne asked.  
“He’s not coming.”  
“Oh.”  
“He doesn’t feel very well.”  
“Mommy? What happened to your face?”  
She reached her hand out and grazed her fingers over Héloïse’s bruises. Héloïse flinched, turned away. “It’s nothing, dear,” she whispered, choking back a sob. It had hit her then, that her husband was dead. She’d hated him but she’d known him. He had dreams, he had a past. He was a monster but he was also a man.  
“Is everything okay?”  
“Yes, darling. Everything is okay.”  
She held Marianne’s face in her hands, kissed her forehead. “I’m going to go upstairs and pack a bag for you, okay? Just sit here and wait, please.”  
“Okay.”  
Héloïse turned to walk away but stopped herself. She grabbed a knife from the block. “For cutting some twine,” she assured Marianne. But as she rushed upstairs, Marianne noticed the bloody footprints she left behind. She turned, faced the window. She had heard the fight, heard the thud. She watched the stars and pretended it wasn’t real, pretended everything was okay.  
I looked up as Héloïse entered.  
“Here,” she whispered, showing me the knife. Carefully, she stuck it into the hole in Adam’s throat. I winced at the sound of it entering his flesh. Once it was in, Héloïse went to the bathroom and threw up. I listened as she ran water over her bloody hands. I sat on the bed, weak, numb. Crying.  
A spot of blood on my white nightgown. A man’s blood.  
She came back a few minutes later, “Alright,” she said, exasperated. “They’ll think it was a kidnapping, hopefully.”  
“Yeah.”  
She looked up at me, her face pale, her eyes watery. She looked frail, as if her body wavered with the light of the candle.  
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I am so sorry.”  
“It’s okay.”  
“Don’t say it’s okay, please. I just killed him, Héloïse. I just killed him.”  
“You were protecting me.”  
I nodded, but I remembered my fantasies from the days before. Horrid fantasies where I did worse than just stab him. What if I had wanted to kill him all along?  
“We have to leave,” she said.  
“Yeah.”  
She walked forward and grabbed her bag, filled it with clothes from the closet. Then she lifted the mattress and slid a bundle of korunas into the bag. She kneeled and reached under the bed, pulled out a book. I recognized it instantly. She looked at me. “Remember?” she whispered. Slowly, I nodded. I remembered. She dropped it in the bag and rushed to Marianne’s room, packed for her, as well.  
I just sat and watched the blood. Even with the knife blocking its exit, it still pooled out and soaked the wood, seeped into it. His blood would always be there, even after his body was gone. I couldn’t bear watching but I couldn’t turn away.  
Héloïse stopped in the doorway.  
“Marianne?”  
“Huh?”  
“Let’s go.”  
I stood, snapped out of my trance. I tip-toed over the body and sprinted to my room, took my pre-packed bag and shouldered it. Héloïse was downstairs, whispering to Marianne, “Come now,” she’d said, “It’s time to leave.”  
“I want to see dad.”  
“You can’t, darling.”  
“Why?”  
“He’s resting.”  
“I just want to see him.”  
“No, you don’t.”  
We left in the night.  
I don’t want to talk much about the journey.  
We bought horses with Adam’s korunas. We trekked through nameless cities and towns for many days, slept in wooden inns, cut our hair to look unrecognizable. Marianne cried often, confused and afraid.  
For many hours, we wouldn’t speak. Marianne would whimper and one of us, whomever’s horse she’d chosen to ride, as she often switched each day, would hold her close and rub her back and kiss her cheek. “Everything is okay,” we’d say.  
Often on the journey I thought of the painting. It sat there, in the middle of Adam and Héloïse’s white bed. I hadn’t known what to do with it. The chair with the red satin was still in the foyer. And the portrait was no longer that of a happy family; now it was a portrait of death and loss. Of ghosts and history. I wondered what the police would do with it.  
One night, at an inn in Germany, Héloïse stood in the early hours of the morning and stepped outside. I hadn’t been sleeping; every time I closed my eyes I still saw blood, consuming everything in its path, so I opened the door and stepped into the cold night after her.  
She was leaning against the building, her eyes closed. When I opened the door, she jumped back.  
“Hi,” I whispered.  
“Hi,” she smiled, relieved.  
“Are you okay?”  
“Yeah,” she looked down. “I think so.”  
“Listen, I’m really sor-”  
“Please, Marianne. Never say you’re sorry for this. Please. I’m not going to say he deserved to die, but I forgive you. I forgive you. And I understand why you did what you did.”  
“Okay,” I nodded, tears falling down my cheeks, “okay.”  
“Okay.”  
And we stood there, in the cold, quiet, peaceful, calm. We looked out over the town, wood and darkness. There was no evil, not there, not then. There were only white stars, and tall trees, and clear air. Hollow, inviting coldness.  
We stood. We breathed.  
\------  
We reached Switzerland on the fourth day. This was where we’d stop, this was where we could find a new home and live different lives. We caught glimpses of evidence we were being looked for, drawings of us ripped up in the dirt, whisperings of Adam’s death. With Héloïse’s face still bruised, and my and Marianne’s hair cut, we were unrecognizable when compared to the police sketches.  
So we rested in an inn. After two days of sleep and relaxation, we caught wind of a cottage being sold not too far from town. Its owner had just died and the bank was looking for a new family to move in.  
Adelaide and her sister, Eve, as well as her sister’s daughter, Mary, moved into that cottage; bought it with all of Adam’s remaining korunas.  
It took a few months for me to kiss Héloïse again. I hated myself, back then. I didn’t want her to touch me; I didn’t deserve to be touched. But we had left, in the early morning, while Marianne slept, to a lake a few hundred feet from our cottage. We took our clothes off and swam, shivered but laughed at our shaking bodies. We floated in the soft, clear water, and watched the sun rise into the blazing orange sky. She turned to me and I turned to her. And I kissed her. I kissed her. She smiled into my lips. And she kissed me back.  
Everything is okay.  
\------  
I lean back in my desk chair. My back aches after writing this story.  
It’s been three years since we came here.  
I can’t tell you why I’ve written it. Perhaps I just needed a way to release it. Maybe now I can forgive myself for what happened that night.  
I look up. In the candlelight, I see her. I see Héloïse, lying in the bed, curled under the covers. Down the hall, Marianne sleeps soundly. She’s taller now. Her paintings cover every wall. I’ve even made some of my own.  
She screams in the night, sometimes. We all do. But we comfort each other. We teach each other how to keep living. We’re truthful, now; we’ve told Marianne everything. And she understands.  
We understand.  
You understand, too, right?  
Soft rain patters against the cold windows. Outside, the velvet sky and scintillating stars watch over our small, moss-covered cottage. I look down at Héloïse’s pale arm, lying limp on the white sheet. Her hand clutching her pillow. I stand, walk over to her. Tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and kiss her cheek.  
I still look at that book. At figure 28. When I do, I always run my fingers slowly over the drawing. Because I’ll never forget it. When I drew it, I was the happiest I’d ever been in my life.  
I know I shouldn’t be happy, these days. I know I shouldn’t be hopeful. We could be found at any moment.  
I tell myself, if they find us, I’ll take all the blame. I’ll hang for what I did. And some days, dark days, I tell myself I deserve it.  
But still, I am happy. I am happy, I am hopeful. I feel safe, I feel comfortable. Finally, we’re together. Our books are in the same room. Our plants are in the same garden. Our clothes in the same closet. Our food in the same pantry. We’re together, and we’re okay.  
And I’m happy because I have their forgiveness.  
I’m happy because they still smile. They still laugh.  
And I don’t think I need much more than that.  
Outside, the rain intensifies.  
I look again at my sleeping Héloïse.  
Her chest rising and falling, her eyes vibrating under her eyelids, her fingertips twitching.  
I look at her because to look away is to suffer a great pain, because every moment I’m not looking at her is a moment wasted. Because every moment looking at her lasts longer than life on earth. Because every moment looking at her is a moment in which I want to live. Every moment looking at her is a moment that saves my life. She heals everything, she changes everything. She is everything.  
I look at her, and, in her sleep, she smiles.  
The lady on fire is finally at peace. She’s not ashes but she’s not a match.  
She’s just herself.  
Finally, herself.  
And we are free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I just wanted to say that I'm so thankful for all of you reading this. It's the first fanfic I've ever written and all of your comments and kudos really encouraged me to continue. I appreciate all of you so much. Hope you enjoyed! :^)


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